My Fair Hacker
by JazzyM
Summary: Maxie wants to find a girlfriend for Spinelli. She'll find one in a surprising place.
1. Chapter 1

Step #16 of the 49 steps to becoming a private investigator instructs aspiring PIs to "Always be aware of your surroundings." Jackal PI has heeded that lesson well, which is why I am aware that Maxie Jones is staring intently at me with narrowed eyes from the bar across the room at Kelly's. I sit at my laptop, trying to work while surreptitiously keeping close tabs on the movements of the Mercurial Blonde One. Why is she looking at me so intently? Have I inadvertently offended her? No, she would not let a slight go unanswered for very long. Is it my hair? It looked perfectly acceptable when I left Stone Cold's fortress this morning, but the vagaries of the windy climate of Port Charles inevitably do damage to my coiffure. Maybe she has heard some falsehood about me from some nefarious enemy, perhaps the Simian One or ...

"Hi Spinelli."

She's sitting down at the table, moving my orange soda to the other side of the laptop, away from my drinking hand. I am annoyed. But curious.

"Hello, Helpful Blonde One." I hesitate before deciding not to say anything further. Best to allow the Blonde One a chance to reveal her purpose for approaching me.

"Spinelli, I've decided to help you."

I recoil. The Jackal needs no help, I tell her. Jackal PI is a thriving business, especially after the unfortunate events surrounding the capture of the Text Message Killer. Private Investigation is a dangerous business, unsuited for fragile blossoms of womanhood such as herself.

She rolls her eyes at me and says, "I want to help you find a girlfriend."

I find that I am speechless. She continues:

"You've been more than nice to me ever since" she pauses slightly, and I think we both flash on the kind face of Wise Georgie for a moment, "my sister was killed. And now you've helped me keep my dream job."

It's true. The Jackal answered the Mercurial Blonde One's frantic call for assistance on a computer-related matter and with his prowess in cyberspace rectified the seemingly impossible situation.

"Your gratitude while, uh, gratifying is unnecessary. Helping you was doing my part to keep the Fashionista happy, which is almost the same as keeping Mr. Corinthos Sir happy, which is something very much in my interest to do," I say.

"No, you did more than you had to, and I want to do something nice for you," she says. "I'm not making much money yet, so I can't take you out to dinner, and I can't get you a present or anything because really, what do you get for the guy who can hack into anything? So I'm going to get you a girlfriend. Georgie's gone, and she died trying to help me, so it's like I owe you a girlfriend."

I squirm. "But, Delusionally Optimistic Blonde One, what makes you think you can accomplish such a feat? The Jackal, although skilled in many areas relating to cyberspace and, well, mob warfare, admittedly possesses few of the attributes that attract the modern woman."

Maxie says nothing, but the gleam in her eye is positively polysyllabic.

We have our first meeting in my room at Kelly's. After Stone Cold's ladylove, the Stalwart Elizabeth, and her progeny moved into the penthouse, I moved to the upstairs room at Kelly's where once resided the Clean Cut Cadet. Though it may be strange to take over the room of a murder victim, I have nerves of steel after my years of working with Stone Cold in many of his illicit business activities. I have seen death before and can now handle it without regurgitating my last meal, though the Jackal would be lying if he said he didn't feel a little queasy.

The Mercurial Blonde One enters the room laden with shopping bags. She is positively sparking with energy, and I can't help smiling like a buffoon at her. She looks around for a place to drop her bags, which is when I notice precisely how unkempt my room is. I sweep a few chairs clean of dirty laundry and papers, then kick the mess under the bed. She shakes her head and mutters under her breath "One thing at a time," then she looks me over from head to toe. I scratch my head nervously under her gaze.

"I told Kate what I was planning, and she let me have the run of the samples closet," she said. "It's a good thing we're marketing ourselves to both sexes, or I'd be dressing you in Thakoon." She laughs and I smile reflexively because what she is saying resembles Sanskrit or some ancient language I've never heard of.

She lays out several outfits on the bed, fussing over each one, then instructs me to try them on one by one, leaving the room each time and knocking to regain entrance. While I stand around like a misfit Ken doll, she pokes and prods and adjusts and measures with her eyes. She fusses with the neckline of one shirt, opening one button, then another. Involuntarily, my hand comes up to my chest as she tries for a third. She laughs, "You're such a geek, Spinelli! Here, take that one off and try this one on." As she turns away to pick up the other shirt, I disrobe from the waist up as requested, but when she turns back, she stops suddenly and stares at me. When the stare goes on a little too long, I pull my arms up nervously to cover my chest, and she shakes her head as if to snap herself out of it. She hands me the shirt then backs away, picking up her purse and turning for the door. "I just remembered, I have to meet Kate. I'll call you later," she says, closing the door behind her.

Not unexpected, I sigh to myself. The Mercurial Blonde One has finally realized that her fantasies of playing Henrietta Higgins to my Edward Doolittle are futile.

I change back into the comfort of my well-worn t-shirt and cargo pants and sit back at my laptop. But it's several minutes before I pull up a browser window and get back to work.

To be continued.


	2. Chapter 2

But the next day I am ensconced at my usual table at Kelly's working on a project for Stone Cold when the Blonde One, mercurial as always, returns. As she seats herself at the table, she flashes what can only be called a brilliant smile and tells me that she has arranged for the two of us to attend an invitation-only party at the Metro Court bar, and she wants me to wear the light green shirt with the brown pants and brown sports jacket. She will meet me in my room, she says, so she can do my hair first.

What can I say? What can I do? Does anyone ever successfully resist the Mercurial Blonde One when she has set her mind on something? I am sure Port Charles is littered with the carcasses of those who have tried.

I'm positioned in front of the mirror in my room imagining the Jackal attending one of those swanky parties at one of those smoke filled bars straight out of a 40s noir flick. The Jackal enters, looking around the room, alert to any potential dangers, when he sees her. She is blonde, she is bad, and she is beautiful, and he's drawn to her like a bee to honey.

The knock at the door breaks me out of my reverie, and I open the door to the Mercurial Blonde One. She is wearing a dress no 40s femme fatale would wear, black and glittery, with considerably more skin than fabric exhibited.

Her hands grasp my upper arms, and for a petrifying moment I think she is going to kiss me, but instead she turns me around and pushes me, none too gently, into a nearby chair.

"Your hair is a crime, Spinelli," she says, and from a small purse she pulls an alarming number of haircare items and starts apply them to my coiffure.

She smells nice. I divert myself from the way her fingers slide through my hair by reciting to myself the names of all the scent-producing flowers in hopes of identifying the particular floral notes in her perfume.

"Honeysuckle," I say suddenly.

"Spinelli, what are you talking about?" she asks.

Nothing, I tell her, and I distract her by inquiring about the social gathering we will later be attending. She communicates to me that she is attending on behalf of the Fashionista. The purpose of the soiree is to promote the designs of a young woman, native to Port Charles, but internationally known for her expertise in fashion.

I gulp. "You are informing me that I, Damian Spinelli, will be consorting with," I can barely conceive the word, much less form and give tongue to it , "supermodels?"

She laughs and turns me around to face her. In this vantage point in the chair, I find myself eye-level with some barely concealed but quite interesting parts of the Mercurial Blonde One's body. The next thing I know, my jaw is snapping shut from the force of her small but surprisingly strong hand. She bends down to meet my eyes with her narrowed blue ones, and the exhilirating frisson I've been feeling quickly evolves into what can be described only as terror.

"Lesson #1, Spinelli. Don't gawk, especially at the supermodels."

She licks a finger, smooths back a stray hair on my forehead, and tells me it's time to leave. Then she picks up her purse and exits, like some sort of pugnacious, perspicacious pixie, leaving a sparkling trail behind her that I am helpless but to follow.


End file.
